


weapons of class destruction

by so_european (4am)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Mention of Death, Suicide mention, mention of alcohol abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6668659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4am/pseuds/so_european
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the not quite Veronica Mars AU<br/>___<br/>Clarke didn't know if what she was doing was right or good or anything really. Truth be told, she didn't care. What did it matter where her actions fell on some arbitrary morale scale. All she wanted was to fix the remains of whatever was left. </p><p>Clarke's hometown is nice, really. It has a great beach, there is a lot for young stupid teenagers to do and it doesn't hurt that about half of the richest folks in California have a summer residence here. If it only wasn't for the harsh conflict between those who have and those who don't. Between those who live in large bright houses near the beach and those who live in houses with permanent water damage and asbestos on the walls. Oh, and if only it wasn't for the murder of a wealthy and beloved high schooler in his own parlour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	weapons of class destruction

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the 100 cast gets an appearance but the story is not about them so I didn't feel like tagging them. This is kinda experimental for me so eh, haven't written in a while, I am making excuses to lower your expectations. This is a lot less Veronica Mars than I originally intended. This was also supposed to be short and sweet (to the soul I intend) but it developed into more, fuck. The first chapter is still a bit messy but after that it should get smoother.

When pressed to describe what regret tastes like Clarke Griffin could have talked about great many things. Waxing poetics about the lips of a lost love, the pain of betrayal, the lingering sourness of bottom shelf whisky, like the truth rotting away on your tongue, the guilt and disappointment that followed. Or the taste of copper stinging in your mouth after a well deserved fist straight to your jaw. Really, Clarke could have said a lot about regret. Things that were actual tastes or just the bitter weight pushing you down that was as real as any flavour.

In the end, Clarke would likely describe the taste of regret as this: Watered down coffee and a three day old slice of toast with a lonely piece of gouda already dark and hard on the edges. That was regret. The breakfast a scowling nurse dropped down on her bedside table in a lovely room at Ark Hospital. For Clarke, this was the accumulation of all her regrets. Well, adding to that maybe the foul taste of vomit stuck on her gums and her skull splitting into two. The tapping of her mom's shoes was really not helping with that.

“Mom, I don't want to press charges. Just let it go,” Clarke said barely refraining from rubbing her temples. It was kinda sad that this was the first real conversation she had with her mother in weeks, but that was a whole different conversation they wouldn't have.

“Let it go, Clarke? So I should let go, that at 6 am in the morning I get a call, to come here and pick up my daughter after she got beat up by some bikers?” her mother said and admittedly that sounded pretty bad. Clarke really didn't even need to look to know her mother just crossed her arms over her chest, eyebrows dragged into a scary frown.

“It wasn't like that. And you know that.” Clarke really just wanted to go back to sleep. “Also it wasn't 'some bikers', it was one, arguably ex-biker.”

The silence that followed showed clearly what her mother, Chief of orthopaedic surgery Dr. Abigail Griffin, thought about that one, but honestly her mother could just suck it. It really wasn't anyone but Clarke's fault, as much as she hated that this seemed to be the case more often than not. Getting utterly shitfaced, stumbling on somebody else's lawn and assaulting someone, who knew probably thirty different ways to kill a dude with bare hands, could certainly be regarded as stupid. But hindsight was 20/20. So there was really nothing to do but to silently accept the bruise on her jaw and the complete humiliation running hot through her gut. That was punishment enough, right?

“I was drunk, I attacked her, she defended herself, I got hit in the face, slipped in my own vomit and hit my head. I am pretty sure, we should let this go,” Clarke said and noticed that when voiced her actions sounded even more pathetic.

Saying that really hurt her pride, and her bruised jaw, but Clarke had made up her mind to try this whole honesty thing again. At least when it served her purpose. She kinda didn't want to sick the police on another innocent person who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong social background.

“Clarke...” Abby murmured. He mother didn't even have the decency to hide her disappointment. Not that she ever really did that. At least recently.

“Yes, mom, I was drunk. As in I consumed alcohol and got intoxicated on my own.” She closed her eyes for a bit – blocking out that exhausting light burning behind her eyelids - and let herself fall back against the propped up hospital bed. “And I will tell everybody exactly that. And that includes police, reporters, the school and anybody who'd like to hear, really.” “

That certainly shut her mother up. But for good measure, Clarke felt like adding to it, not out of spite, but to make it clear she was not gonna budge.

“Very much underage Clarke Griffin assaulted someone under the influence. Any evidence of said influence curiously disappeared from the medical report from Ark Hospital. Sounds pretty good to me, right Dr. Griffin?” said Clarke already painting the headlines with a swiping hand gesture. Clarke smiled at her mother with her eye brows raised.

Okay, perhaps she was being just a little petty. Her mother shook her head in either defeat or disappointment. A deep scowl edged into her features. Carved wrinkles that ran down her brows and mouth, they cut deep into her face. Those had been a constant of her mother's face for quite a while, if Clarke were to be honest.

“Let's just drop this. I go home and we pretend I didn't completely fuck up, okay? I really don't feel like doing this now.”

Hadn't her head felt like she was being stabbed through her eyeballs, she probably would have had felt a mute satisfaction from her mothers appalled face. Childish, yes, but god she really was so done. Her mother, too, if the twitch in her jaw was any indication. Or the slight turn towards the door, a sign that she was looking for a way to exit the situation. Which Clarke did welcome.

“I will have to check in and see what I have to take care of today. We will talk about this over dinner. Wells is going to pick you up in a bit.”

Over Clarke's dead body. On both accounts.

“Mom, I am not -”

“Clarke, this is not a discussion,” interrupted Abby. She clearly didn't seem to want to entertain any further argument. “I am your mother and I say Wells is going to drive you home.” And with that Abby was already across the room. With a glare that left no room for a reply she left. The door closed with a load thud behind her.

“Great.”

 

_“Miss Griffin, I am led to believe that, at that point of time, were in a fight with Mr. Collins.”_

_“Fight is not the right word. We broke up, like people do. It was a bit awkward, but we weren't like arguing or anything. We weren't really talking.”_

_“So, you were not talking? Then why have we had several of your classmates on record speaking of you loudly engaging Mr. Collins on several occasions after your break-up.”_

_“That is, he was, … break-ups are messy.” Her hand flew to the back of her neck. Clammy fingers rubbed against the tense muscle._

_“Miss Griffin, why did you break up with Mr. Collins?”_

 

“Clarke, Clarke, wait! You are not su- I am supposed to -”

“I don't care, Wells! Why are you even here?”

If Clarke hadn't been as angry, she probably would have felt the nausea crawling up her gut. Her head felt light as she stormed through the hospital corridor. She clutched the plastic bag with last nights clothes. Fresh sweatpants and a hoodie hung loosely down her body. She had quickly rinsed her hair and face not wanting to waste anymore time in the hospital, even if a hot shower would have been nice.

“Your mother asked me to drive you home, Clarke.” Wells fell in step with Clarke. He was smart enough to no touch her, or anything similarly ill advised. She didn't know what she would do if he did. What Clarke did know was that she could hold a grudge and this was too fresh, too raw.

“No, Wells, why are you here? Really?”

“Clarke, I...” His feet come to a halt. Clarke slowed down, she closed her eyes as she tried to calm her anger.

“What, Wells?”

She knew what he was about to say, she knew why he did what he did. She knew, she knew, she knew. In his position she might have done the same, she probably would have. She swallowed and focused on her surroundings. Around them the hospital was in a post-breakfast pre-rounds calm. If she walked a bit further she could at least get to the elevator. The walls and corners were decorated with colourful accents and large pots of various flowers, as it would hide the clinical white and make you believe you were in some fancy hotel. Besides her Wells was silent. A loud silence that aggravated her. Clarke scoffed.

“Go on, Wells. Tell me.” She swirled around. The bag in her hand almost flying out of her grip.

“I wanted to help, Clarke.”

“You helped so much. You did a great a job, Wells. Thanks.” She knew she wasn't being fair, but it hurt. It eased the pain a bit, snapping at him. Pushing all of it on Wells, no matter how terrible she would feel later.

“I just wanted to do the right thing!”

Clarke knew that.

“I had to tell them.”

Clarke exploded.

“No, you didn't!”

The bag in her hand dropped. Clarke dashed forward. Tilting her chin upwards, she slammed her open hand against his shoulder. Wells moved with the shove, soft, stepping backwards, taking Clarke's anger with him. His eyes were downcast. Clarke grid her teeth.

“Clarke, I know, I know and I am sorry.” Wells was pleading, but his apologies didn't mean much to her. After all it wasn't Clarke who should be receiving them.

“No, you aren't.” She bit her lip and shut her eyes for a moment. She needed to breath. “You don't care what's gonna happen to her. They are gonna pin it on her. And only because you had to open your mouth. I told you, I told you I would take care of it. I told you it wasn't her, but you just had to go and...”

This was pointless. Just a few deep breaths. Clarke clenched and unclenched her hands as she twirled around and stomped to the elevator. She pressed the button and shifted her weight to her left foot, tapping the other on the floor. Yelling at Wells wasn't going to help anyone. Especially not her. She exhaled. Clarke crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers digging into the skin under the hoodie. A distracting pull. She closed her eyes. Clarke heard the rustling of the plastic bag behind her, felt Wells hovering behind her picking it up. She could practically sense him shifting from one foot to another.

Clarke brushed against some guy in a ill-fitting Adidas tracksuit as she finally entered the elevator. She leaned against the pleasantly cool wall, one hand holding onto the railing after she pressed the button for the ground floor. Wells stood on the other side of the spacious elevator, in front of the big mirror covering that wall. He was clutching the bag tightly in his left hand and his shoulders were hunched forward.

“Clarke, I saw her at his house, I had to tell the police,” Wells said. His arms hung at his side and the palm of his empty hand was turned upwards. He shuffled his feet, clearly wanting to approach her.

Clarke could see herself in the mirror. With tense shoulders, her face was ghostly, blues and reds tarnishing it. Blue strokes under her bloodshot eyes, a purple bruise painted on her jaw, hurting with every move of it. Flicks of blonde hair were falling in front of her face out of a messy bun. God, she looked like crap.

“I know you believe her, Clarke, but...”

“You should have trusted me. I don't expect you to believe her, but me. I know she didn't do it. Whatever she was doing there, I know she didn't do it. She wouldn't. She couldn't.”

Clarke's hand clenched around the railing, hard, so hard a cramping pain rose along her arm. The pain helped clearing Clarke's mind from the suffocating feeling clawing in her chest. Her eyes moved to the control panel. It was too early for many visitor to use one of the many elevators in the hospital. Most people started visiting around lunch time on Saturdays. Taking walks with the patients, eating out when possible and some just sat there and watched while the electronic noises of monitors were their only companions. She swallowed the bitter thought.

“Clarke, I know you think you can trust her. But after what happened, she hated Finn. She is not the same person anymore,” Wells said stepping forward. His voice was drenched with righteous conviction and sympathy. He believed in what he said.

Clarke once read that they installed mirrors in elevators to distract scared people from their fear or stress of using one. They would check their hair in the mirror, or their make-up, instead of worrying about the elevator getting stuck or falling. Smart really, Clarke wished the distraction worked right now.

“I don't just think, I know. Yeah, after the accident, yeah she hated him, so much. But, I...” She exhaled. Another pause to collect herself. Even if they hadn't spoken since then. Even if the accident had torn them apart for good, Clarke thought, she would always believe in her. “I believe in her, I believe in Lexa.”

The name burned on her tongue, in her throat, like that shitty bottom shelf Whiskey she drank last night.

 

_“Miss Griffin, can you tell us more about the relationship between Miss Woods and you?”_

_“What does that have to do with anything?”_

_“Miss Griffin, please”_

_“Lexa and I” She took a deep breath “We used to be friends, a long time ago.”_

_“And why aren't you anymore?”_

_“I am an Arker, she isn't.” Clarke said. Her arms crossed against her chest, holding onto herself. She leaned back, her chin jutted upwards in challenge._

_“And your relationship with Mr. Collins had nothing to do with it?”_

 

“I know what you want to hear.” Clarke smiled, her teeth showing as she shook her head. “Yes, Costia's death had to do with it. It changed things, for everyone.” She licked her lips and her eyes focused on the man in front of her, establishing eye-contact. “But we weren't on the best terms before that either. Haven't been since like middle school.”

“According to your classmates, Miss Woods has blamed Mr. Collins for the accident, is that correct?”

“Clarke, I don' think that's a good idea,” Wells said laying his hand on her shoulder. They stood in front of the parking lot of the hospital. It was pleasantly warm outside and the smell of the nearby sea stung in Clarke's nose. Altogether it was too bright, sucking the saturation out of colours and tinting everything in a pale yellow.

In the third row of the lot stood an old run down Buick LeSabre. An older model, from the 70s if Clarke recalled correctly, that still had all the hard edges and lines running over it's long hood, with an aggressive silver bumper and tailgate. It's chipped red paint job was fading. Angry marks were spread all over it, where it had been keyed one too many times. Many of them were clearly made recently.

“Go, Wells. I'll tell my mom you drove me home. It's gonna be fine.”

“Clarke, you...”

“At least trust me this time, Wells,” Clarke said. It wasn't really fair, but Wells was too caring to just go, she had to use the bit of leverage she had. His hand weighted on her shoulder for a bit longer before it slipped away.

“See you around?”

Clarke turned to Wells. He held out the bag to her like an olive branch. One she didn't want to take just yet. It just took more than a conversation in an elevator but it was a start and after all, he was trusting Clarke to do something that might be considered pretty stupid.

“Yeah, I think.” She took the bag and gave him a curt nod.

When she got in the LeSabre Clarke threw the bag on the backseat as she stared at the blonde wolfing down a burger that barely fit in her hand over the stirring wheel. Anya had never been the biggest fan of Clarke and in hindsight she probably had been right about that.

“She is gonna kill you. You know that, right?” Clarke told Anya, who didn't take even a second to look at her. Anya seemed to be quite satisfied smacking and chewing on her burger. After she swallowed a particularly big chunk she scoffed. “Please, she has bigger worries. You seen your people's work on the poor paint?”

“Not my people.” The smell of food made Clarke's stomach revolt. Out of hunger or nausea, either way, it was unpleasant. “Also, pretty sure the world could end and the food ban would not be lifted.”

Taking one last bite Anya rolled down the window and threw the rest of her burger including it's wrapper out of it. With a disgusting splat it hit the ground just before the Audi, that was parked to her side. Some sauce stuck to its shiny black paint. Anya turned to Clarke her eyebrows raised.

“Better?”

“Wow. Very mature.”

“You people pay people like me to clean up the trash anyway,” Anya said and picked out some meat stuck between her teeth with her fingernails. The chipped black polish in stark contrast to her teeth.

“Anya” Clarke caught some of the stray hair sticking out of her bun pushing them back.

“Nice little bruise, by the way. Suits you.”

“You could at least pretend you are sorry.”

“I am really not. After all, you attacked me. And together with your friend tattletale over there,” Anya pointed to where Wes was still lingering in the parking lot. He was watching them with tight shoulders and a frown tearing into his face. “you fucked us over. So yeah, I am actually really not sorry.”

“So you know it was Wells, who gave the tip to the police?” That probably should not be known to public. At least outside the Arkers. She wondered if Wells was gonna get something worse than some scratches on his car.

“Yeah, you think we don't have a few friends over at the station.” Anya leaned back in her seat. She slung on hand over the wheel and looked at Clarke out of the corner of her eyes.

“How many know?”

“Don't worry, nobody is gonna touch him. Or his car.”

“Good. He thought he was doing the right thing.” Not that Clarke had stopped being angry with Wells, but she shuddered just thinking about what they would do to him, if they found out.

“That's nice. That will keep Lexa warm and fuzzy in that holding cell.” Clarke sunk into her seat, taking long breaths through her mouth. Her jaw hurt. There was thudding in both of her ears, like her heartbeat overwhelming her. She bit her lip and closed her eyes.

“She is not gonna be in there long,” Clarke replied her eyes still shut.

“Oh, and how you are gonna do that?” Anya leaned forward and put her weight on steering wheel. She was smirking.

“By fixing it.”

 

_“So Miss Woods has attacked Mr. Collins before?”_

_“Yes, look, everybody knows about that. Nothing big. Finn decided to not follow up on it. Their emotions were running high. Lexa had just lost her girlfriend.”_

_“And why did Mr. Collins not pursue any charges?”_

_“Because Finn was a good guy. He knew Lexa was going through a tough time.”_

_“She broke his nose, she accused him of causing her girlfriend's death.”_

_“Yeah, she did. And Finn understood that, he understood in what pain she was in. What happened, that night, it left marks on him too. He didn't want to make Lexa's life worse with unnecessary charges. Like I said. Finn was a really good guy. One of the best I knew.”_

 

“So you don't believe she killed the golden boy, huh?” said Anya smirking like she wasn't talking about the murder of Clarke's ex-boyfriend. A person she had truly loved. Cared for. Who had been taken from everyone, bloody and violent. A person she had cried over alone in the dark of her bedroom, because she pretended to be strong when she stood at his coffin, at his grave. It hit her like a sledgehammer.

Clarke focused her thoughts on Anya. A leather jacket a size too big hung over her wiry shoulders. Under the thin straps of her white tank top several tattoos peaked out and stretched over her collar bones and shoulders. Dark ink angrily splashed over her skin, choppy and smooth lines tangling on faded colours. Old tattoos, bad tattoos, new tattoos, good tattoos, mixing on her body overlapping faint white scars and pale tan lines. They were all prove of her life.

She met Anya's eyes.

“Even though she was at his house and had a motive, you believe she didn't?” Anya asked. She raised one eyebrow in challenge.

Which Clarke met head on. “Who do you think you are talking to?”

“An Arker” The words sounded like a life sentence out of Anya's lips, they probably were in a way. She spoke them with a finality that made Clarke's blood rush up her neck and made her gut heavy with guilt. It wasn't just accusing her of being part of the rich folks living around the hospital, that was just a fact anyway. No Arker meant more. It meant you were part of the people abusing and exploiting those less fortunate. That you were one of those assholes in high school making fun of somebody for their hand me down sneakers and threw exclusive parties at your parents beach house. Being an Arker to Anya meant you looked down on her.

Clarke shook her head and turned towards the wind shield and said, “I know Lexa, have known her all my life”

She had known Lexa when her limbs still had been too long and too gangly, her wrists oh so thin. Slim and long hands that were way too large for her growing body. When Lexa's cheeks still had been a little chubby, her cheekbones hiding under her baby fat. When her arms had been clumsy and not pulled taunt as if steel wires ran under her skin, deep inside her muscles. Had known her when she smiled and lowered her head to hide it, known her when her face lit up in a smile stretching wide all across her face. And because Clarke knew Lexa, Clarke hurt. The thought of wrists that broke far too easily and shoulders that carried far too much drowned Clarke. Made her gasp for air in the undertow, filled her lungs with black ink until she couldn't breath any longer.

“You really think that? That after everything you still know her?” Anya was belittling her enjoying rubbing salt into the still raw wounds. The unspoken resentment for not standing by Lexa like Clarke should have.

“I will always know Lexa.” Even when she will have forgotten everything else, when everything's changed, when Clarke herself will be someone entirely different, even then she will always know the girl with the wrists that were far too fragile. Anya snorted and mumbled something to herself.

“That's why I am gonna fix this,” said Clarke and fastened her seatbelt. “But for that I need a shower first, so if you would, please?”

“You are a piece of work, you know that?” Anya shook her head as she turned the keys stuck in the ignition. Clarke recognized the key bundle as Lexa's instantly. Small keys to old bike locks, the rusty one from the old shed, the two identical square ones which Lexa always mixed up, the different keychains that used up most of the keyring. The pendants were impractical and got constantly caught in her pockets. Lexa would always struggle to fish them out of her jeans. Clarke stared at her wringing hands in her lap.

“We gonna have to pick up Aden first. We made him sleep over at a friends house.” Anya explained starting to back up the car. Looking over her shoulder to check the distance to the next row, she put on her seatbelt and then with one swift turn got out of her spot.

“How is he, how's Aden?” asked Clarke. Her tongue ran over her chaffed lips. They had little dents and scraps from nipping and biting on them constantly. They had dry edges that felt odd and hard. She would do a lot for some lip balm right now but asking Anya was still too much for her pride to take.

“Like all kids whose big sister got taken by the cops,” replied Anya shrugging. “Angry.” Anya looked at Clarke pursing her lips. “You are lucky, he wasn't there last night. You know, for your little freak out.”

“Would you be nice enough to, you know, not rub it in?” Clarke said and sighed. God, yes, she was glad Aden didn't see that.

How after she heard the news that Lexa got taken into custody trough an anonymous tip for the murder of Finn Collins rushed to the station. How after she had been send away, because Lexa didn't wish to see her, she had decided to drown herself in shitty whiskey. How she had walked up to Lexa's house and screamed her head off. Oh god, she barely remembered but it still made her neck burn with embarrassment. She thanked every known deity Aden didn't witness her pathetic drunk hissy fit.

The boy already despised her enough, see that was really not needed. She hadn't talked to him since her initial fallout with Lexa, even though she snuck into one of his soccer matches several times. The last time he had spotted her and he had been furious, telling her to go fuck herself. Lexa would have probably rinsed out his mouth with soap for that. She did not kid around when it came to Aden. And Aden did not kid around when it came to his sister. Yeah, he would be furious.

And furious he was when they later stopped in front of him waiting at some street corner. Before Clarke could as much as roll down the window he flung open the door. He stared down at her and said “Get out”

That stung. Clarke couldn't even look up to him, it reminded her of the time she heard Lexa give Aden advice to hit where it really hurt. Find the opening and aim for the liver. Clarke stuttered helplessly his name. It's not like she didn't expect hostility. Anya stayed silent beside her.

“How else am I gonna get in?” he said stepping back. A big black sports bag was slung over his left shoulder. A white ten was printed on it. It was Lexa's bag. Clarke swallowed.

“O-of course.” In her hurry she tugged at the stuck seatbelt. “Just a sec,” murmured Clarke as she scrambled out of the car and pulled the seat forward. Aden chucked his bag in the backseat and climbed in. But not without slamming his shoulder in Carke's side. The act itself was less hurtful than his attitude.  
“Aden.” Anya's voice was low but the unspoken 'behave' was clear. The boy scowled at her.

Ducking her head lower than necessary Clarke got back into the front seat after fixing the seat again. Aden looked almost nothing like his sister. His hair was thin and blonde, a dishevelled fringe falling over his eyebrows. His skin was paler, even with the californian summer sun small blue veins shimmered through. His hands were the same though, long fingers that were attached to big visible knuckles. Fragile fingers that looked like they could easily break but didn't. His frown was also like his sister's The way his eyebrows pulled down leaving the bridge of his nose in wrinkles and the way he would raise his chin in defiance. The mouth would be pulled in a small pout. Yeah, that was the expression Lexa always made. Both looked too thin, both looked like they would fall apart under a little pressure and their long gangly limbs would break any moment.

“Why is she here?” Aden asked his arms tightly crossed against his chest. His elbows stuck out looking sharp. He wore a v-neck shirt that was way too big for his slim chest, the fabric pooling at his waist. The collar hung low revealing much of his shoulder and and his collar bone, which was slightly crooked from the time he broke it years ago.

“Put your seatbelt on,” said Anya shifting gears while Clarke turned backwards on her seat. She faced Aden, the seatbelt cutting into her shoulder. He avoided her eyes and stared at the back of Anya's head as he fastened his belt.

“What happened to her face?” he asked and glanced at Clarke's plastic bag with suspicion.

“I punched her.” Anya explained. She spoke like hitting Clarke was no big deal, which maybe it wasn't. Clarke did not wanna know how many people Anya hit on a daily basis.

“I want to help Lexa,” spoke Clarke slowly, hoping Aden would feel her honesty. She understood why he was acting like he was. He had been hurt too by Clarke's behaviour. She had let them hanging and didn't expect him to just forgive that, she hadn't forgiven herself either. She chewed on her lower lip, it stung.

“Now you want to help?” Aden said and looked at her. His jaw did that little twitch and his eye squinted, angry wrinkled forming at the edges. He looked so much like Lexa in that moment. “You should have helped when her girlfriend died.” Clarke swallowed yet held his gaze. It was painful to see the little boy she would piggyback and tickle look so angry and frustrated. He wasn't supposed to be feel like that.

“Oh right, you were busy sucking off the guy who killed her.”

Clarke gasped. That was not something the kid who dressed up as a knight for every Halloween would say. Well, Lexa did tell him to always go for the weak spot and Aden certainly just had hit her in the liver. With a key between his knuckles.

“Aden.” Anya repeated herself. She hated repeating herself. Her voice rumbled with the syllables. This time she looked over her shoulder. She was pissed. “If I hear you talking like that again you are fucking grounded. Lexa would be disappointed,” she said and looked back to the road. Aden lowered his head, his fringes hiding his eyes.

“Where did you learn to talk like that anyway?” Anya continued after a short silence. Her hand on the steering wheel relaxed and the harsh tone left her voice.

“Middle school?” Aden shrugged. He still kept his eyes lowered.

“When I was in middle school, we didn't talk like that.” And Clarke noticed how almost forcefully light Anya's word sounded. She was trying to defuse the situation and calm Aden. So Clarke added “Pff, you got a tattoo in middle school.”

“A terrible one. Shit got infected too.” Anya chuckled as if it was funny little story. A story in which she got needled with some self-built machine in the girls toilet. The infection was inevitable. She would always say it had been an important character building exercise.

“You guys won't even let me get my ears pierced.” Aden complained finally raising his head. Indignation was painted all over his face.

“Lexa did that your age, and you can ask 'princess' here how well that went.” Clarke pulled up her shoulders to her ears. She remembered. That was probably not their brightest moment. One should not pierce with apples and movies were full of lies. Those were the valuable lessons she learned when Lexa and her sat at the doctors office with inflamed ears.

“But I am not talking to her” Aden spit the words out. It would have been too easy, Clarke thought with a sigh. She understood. Still hurt, though.

“You did well insulting her just a moment ago.” Anya raised her eyebrows as she glanced over to him, keeping the street in sight out of the corner of her eyes.

“Anya,” Clarke mumbled. Her voice was heavy as her heart felt. “It's fine, I get he's angry.”

“I am angry, because Lexa won't be.” He pressed the words out between his teeth, the 'x' dragged out in a snarl. For a 14 year old his anger felt very much like the one of an adult. Bitter and resentful. Aden was always beyond his years, like his sister, but Clarke had wished he would have been spared feeling like that for a few more years. His anger was directed and had simmered for years now. Clarke saw his throat bob and his jaw clench. She was sure if he raised his head again she would see tears.

What he probably didn't realize though, was that his words hit Clarke a lot harsher than what he might have expected. Not that he was angry, but that Lexa just stubbornly would forgive her everything and push down her own feelings as quickly as she could. That knowledge was worse than any actual anger hurled at her. She bit her lip hard.

Anya lifted her hand from the stick and punched Clarke lightly in the shoulder. Anya hummed and said: “Well, Lexa could never stay mad at a pretty girl.” That kind of jab felt unnatural and maybe it was. But Anya would do anything to sooth boy fighting tears on the backseat. Anya was doing her best and Clarke appreciated it. She knew after all that Anya was not the most comfortable with emotions or being the sensitive one. She had struggled a lot with Lexa while not 'making her soft' as she put it.

“I swear, I am really here to help,” Clarke said and turned away from Aden. She couldn't stand to see his shoulders shake and nose flaring. Her first instinct would be to comfort him and tell him that it was okay to cry and that it's fine to feel sad. Meaningless advice, just to ease her own guilt. But Aden didn't want to cry, he wanted to look strong and tough, no matter how much he was scared out of his mind. He wanted to be like his sister. Who was sitting alone in a holding cell probably also pretending to be strong.

“I am so sorry, Aden,” whispered Clarke. The little sniffle she heard broke her heart.

 

_“I understand that this must be very difficult for you, Miss Griffin. But I would like you to tell us again what happened that morning,” the man in front of her said. Reciting his lines that he probably used on a thousand different people. He didn't understand anything._

_“I...” Clarke's voice was shaky. She closed her eyes when she continued. “I went to his house that morning, because he had called me during the night. He was clearly upset about something. He just randomly called me, we hadn't been talking and I was surprised. I told him to calm down and go to bed, I would come over in the morning. And when nobody answered the door I just, you know, I just walked in looking for him and... there he was. In the parlour.”_

 

Clarke felt sick under the shower. The water took a long time to warm up, that hadn't changed. Lexa always hated that, showering at Clarke's when possible. The cold spray made her shudder. She looked around for some bodywash. She noticed some random 'For Men' gel that screamed dumb jock with it's black bottle and cool blue thunder, that probably belonged to Aden, as if using over priced 'manly' hygiene projects would make him grow up faster. Perhaps it would magically make him grow that silly stubble teenage boys seemed to find so cool. Behind it stood that same simple bodywash Lexa had been using since she was twelve. Clarke picked it up. Instead of calming her, being alone made the ache in her belly grow. It was a strange pain, that swirled in her stomach sometimes reaching up to her chest to squeeze and take her breath with it. It was a warm uneasiness that wouldn't let go. Spreading all over her body it gathered in her stomach and neck. Her ear rung with dull thuds as Clarke tried to keep her breath even, The cold water that was supposed to rid her of this, to clean her body and mind of this anxious feeling, drowned her in it. Freezing water ran over her face, the water slipping between her lips and overwhelmed her.

Letting the water get warmer she stepped slightly to the side avoiding the spray. Carefully she applied the bodywash, massaging it into her skin. It soothed her sore muscles and the anxious ache in her gut. The shower was almost claustrophobic, high sliding doors with milky glass and the white tiles and wall that reminded her of the hospital. It was almost obsessive, like it had been scrubbed over and over. Lexa had always been so clean, it made her feel calm, she used to say. Clarke envied that, wherever she herself would go she'd leave chaos behind her. Week old mugs and books were all over the place and once she even found pencils in her sink. It was comfortable messiness that according to Lexa showed how at ease Clarke was with herself. Clarke disagreed.

The water was now at a pleasant temperature. It felt soothing using Lexa's favourite, the familiar smell calmed her a little. Next she looked for Lexa's lavender shampoo behind some conditioner and stuff that probably belonged to Anya. As she rubbed the shampoo in her scalp she closed her eyes. She took a deep breath through her nose. She needed to think. Aden and Anya were just down the hall. Hopefully the police had nothing on Lexa aside from Well's seeing her that night. She herself had already given a statement to the police, so there was no changing that now to help Lexa. If only she knew what exactly the police was going to try to make Lexa look guilty. If only she knew what Lexa was saying to defend herself. If she was even defending herself. She had always been one for fucked up martyrdom. Not that someone like Lexa would be able to truly defend herself in this city, not with that corrupt police. No, Lexa needed someone who was respected and had influence to get her out of this. Someone who wasn't just a small voice, or some stressed out public defender or legal aid.

She rinsed her hair and shut off the water. A shudder was crawling up her spine and the quiet pitter-patter of the water dripping down her body was the only sound in the now freezing bathroom. Clarke stood there for some time, her eyes closed as the soothing noise of the water subdued. After a while she took a deep breath and grabbed a towel. Shaking out water out of her hair as if it would take away her worries too she stepped out of the shower. While she dried herself she heard steps outside the bathroom. She took a look at the various bottles and little tins filled with lotions and creams presented on the sink. Smiling she picked a lotion she remembered Lexa had been using since they were younger as a short knock announced Anya's arrival.

“So, now that you don't reek of vomit, tell me, what are we gonna do?” Anya said and from the small thud against the door Clarke assumed she was leaning against it. Quickly Clarke threw on her clothing and put up her hair in a bun so it could dry. Looking into her own face in the bathroom mirror she answered: “We gonna get help.” Clarke licked her dry lips, they still hurt a little. “Real help.”

“Care to actually explain?” Anya said and Clarke could hear a distinct impatient tapping against the door. Clarke looked over the the beauty products on the sink and took a stick of lip balm from the side she assumed was Lexa's judging from the scary amount of flowery smells. Pushing it deep into the pockets of her sweatpants, clutching it with white knuckles, she quickly checked her appearance before leaving.

Clarke opened the door, now facing a surprised Anya. Smiling Clarke spoke:

“Say, what do you know about Marcus Kane?”

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written for this fandom and I doubt I am getting the characters right but hey as long as I am writing. I am stupidly busy with my job but I will get some days off in May and finish this at latest then. I am also trying to carefully and respectful mention race related issues, because its linked to class conflict and it would be a disservice to not show that. ON the other hand I am white as fuck and I don't think thats my story to tell but meh there is no way I will write stuff worse than the racially insensitive stuff on the actual show. I was a casual watcher and then stuff happened and felt like writing this  
> I don't understand how america works so this is set in magic california where stuff works like I say and it physically hurts me to write the word soccer. Have a good day, I would be happy about critic. I am very sleepy and nervous


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